Finishing What Was Started
by my-interesting-penname
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is in for a big surprise when an unexpected visitor pops by, bringing back memories he so wishes he can forget; but the Woman wont take no for an answer. After all, she always likes to finish what she starts.
1. Chapter 1

Patience isn't a strength of mine, and I'm getting bored waiting. I assumed that they'd be here by now, if I would've known that they'd take this long to show up, I could've found something a tad more productive to do. I sigh as I stretch out in Sherlock Holmes' favorite armchair, scanning the dark living room of 221B, snuggling myself deeper into the dents of the worn cushions from the sustained focus of his bodyweight in a certain position, imitating the way he sits, trying to understand the puzzle that is the world's only consulting detective. I do love a good puzzle.

I sigh and pull myself up, reaching for my handbag that I placed on the floor by my feet. I pick it up and take out my trusty little mirror and my tube of blood red lipstick and inspect my shadowy reflection in the dark.I apply a fresh coat of shiny lipstick when I suddenly hear a door unlock downstairs. I smile coyly to myself, drop my stuff back into my purse, and lean back in the chair, crossing my legs elegantly.

"And that, John, is how it is so obvious-" Sherlock Holmes suddenly stops dead in his tracks as he catches sight of little old me, perched in his favorite armchair. Donned in his usual dark trench coat with the stand-out little red buttonhole and a dark, navy blue scarf wrapped around his sleek neck, his ice-blue eyes fill with shock for a short second, but he soon regains his ever-emotionless composure.

"Good evening, Miss Adler." He says, without missing a beat, as John clomps in behind him,

"I don't quite see how it's obv- uhhhhh"

"Hello Mr Holmes," I say, ignoring John's baffled expression, my lips curling into my usual coy, come-and-get-me smirk as the lights switch on, flooding 221B with light. I straighten up slightly as I feel Sherlock's eyes rake my sitting stature, seated in his comfy, cushiony armchair, obviously trying to deduce everything about me in one glance. It's nice to see that nothing changes.

And by the little crease of frustration that slowly starts forming between his eyebrows, indicating that he, as always, can't deduce anything from my appearance, I know that nothing has changed, indeed. "Lovely to see you again."

"Surely." He says, his deep voice reverberating through the room quite sexily, his eyes meeting mine, but he remains firmly planted by the door. "What brings you here, may I ask?"

"Wait a bloody second, aren't you supposed to be dea- I mean in America?" John says, his face going red with confusion. Cute. I ignore and rise from my seat, keeping that coy smile plastered on my face and maintaining eye contact, trying to read his mind as he does the same to me. Silly boy.

"Oh you know, I was in town, so I thought I might drop by and say hello." I cross the room fluidly, and stand right in front of Sherlock, my face centimeters away from his. "Missed me?"

"Not quite."

"Oh, come now, why else would you have saved me from that little, erm, rough patch, I got myself into back in Karachi if you knew you weren't going to."

"I see that scar on your collarbone has healed well."

"I see that bash you got on your face did too," I say, nonchalantly dismissing his comment as a wave of satisfaction tingled through me. I knew that he had enough rogue male instinct to at least admire the work I put into arranging my outfit, which was a flattering navy blue body-con Calvin Klein number with a plunging neckline and a skirt that fell right to my knees.

"Wha- Karachi? Care to explain, Sherlock?" John says in a slightly strangled tone. Both Sherlock and I break away from the intense staring contest we had going on to look at John's adorably beet-red face that was twisted with confusion.

"So he hasn't told you? That's quite adorable." I say, as I turn to John and give him my most penetrating and taunting gaze, causing him to squirm uncomfortabl.

"I saved her from being executed by an erm, organization of certain specialists, for pilfering classified information in Karachi two years back." Sherlock says in a monotonous casual drawl, as though commenting on the weather, "And you, Ms Adler, still haven't told us why you happen to be in our apartment at such a late hour. I'm sure that you're aware that the these aren't my normal consulting hours."

"Can't a girl pop by to say hello?" I purr, inching closer towards Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

"You're hardly what I would call a girl" God I've missed this.

"Well then, what WOULD you define me as, Mr Holmes?" I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling myself closer to his face. His eyes widen slightly, but he's obviously trying to hide his shock as his eyes stubbornly continue to bore into mine, trying to read me. It wasn't as if he wouldn't expect me to get all up in his personal space and try to crack his stony facade, after all, old habits die hard.

John cleared his throat, sounding quite uncomfortable, but both Sherlock and I ignored him and continued staring at each other, waging a silent war of wills. Why hasn't he tried anything defensive yet, I mean I basically broke into his house and could've been messing around with God knows what. I could've rigged the whole place with a bunch of explosives for all he knows! Well, he probably does know better, being the great Sherlock Holmes and all.

Suddenly, Sherlock jerkily rips himself out of my grasp and jumps towards the little table right beside the door and flips open a dusty looking old leatherback book to reveal it's hollowed-out contents; a bunch of needles filled with a yellowish looking liquid. How very Sherlock-y of him. Before my usual razor-sharp instincts kick in, I felt a painful jab on the top of my left arm. Why didn't I expect THAT?

I look at his face, still contorted in a soft sneer, and smile weakly. "Why, Mr Holmes! Is that a way to treat a lady?" I say shakily. I then proceed to collapse; everything goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Reviews are much appreciated, folks. Don't be afraid to tell me your opinion, mean or otherwise. Thanks!**

My head is killing me. I roll my head to the side and feel a stiffness all over my body. I try to adjust my uncomfortable position, but I soon realize that I can't as I suddenly register that the pin-prickly pressure around the tops my arms, my waist, and my ankles are from ropes that are restricting my movement quite tightly I wrench my eyes open, and immediately shut them, letting out an involuntary hiss as the bright light that is spilling through the windows accosts my eyes.

"She's up!" I hear a somewhat familiar male voice yell.

"Wonderful."

I groan and open my eyes a bit slower this time, giving my eyes a chance to adjust. I blink twice to clear my vision and take in my surroundings. I see John Watson in a bathrobe in the dinky little kitchen of what I remember is 221B. Suddenly, the night's events start rushing back into my head, and I let out a sigh.

"Sherlock, would you be a dear and untie me? I can't feel my arms or feet."

I twist my neck around in an attempt to spot the ever so resourceful Sherlock, but he's nowhere in sight. I gently start to wriggle around my seat in an attempt to at least loosen up my bonds, and suddenly I feel a cold, large hand on my shoulder. I look up and see a stony-faced Sherlock glaring at me.

"No need for that now, Miss Adler. Now tell me, what brings you around this part of town?"

"Was it really necessary to drug me like that, Sherlock, that's no way to treat a guest. But then again I guess you're not the most gracious host around."

"I figured I owed you one." He says, obviously recalling how the first time we met ended, "Now tell me, what are you doing here?" Sherlock pulled up a chair from the kitchen table and set it right across mine, his last five words hardening in succession, an unfriendly glint shinning in his eyes that are boring into mine. I remain silent in defiance, clearly annoying him. We sit in silence for a half minute, until Sherlock breaks the silence

"Well, you are obviously on the run, from an unwanted marriage, or more accurately, an engagement, I presume, judging by the tan line on your ring finger. But I doubt you gave the poor bloke a chance to make it official, I'll bet. You were probably vacationing with this man in a sunny area, thus causing the tan line, as you couldn't possibly have worn the ring long enough to cause a tan line from daily wear. Suddenly you flee. You probably ran as soon as you got what you wanted, which was probably information of some sort; information you don't completely understand. You wouldn't possibly marry, or in this case, almost marry, for money as you've got that little enterprise of yours going, and why else would you so kindly be paying me a visit unless you have a puzzle you want me to solve, correct?" He says in one rushed go, sounding surprisingly dry, considering the fact that he just figured out that I was about to be "married", but then again he knows me well enough to know that I wouldn't get myself into such a mess, not stopping for breath once.

"Impressive." I whisper, "But you were wrong on one account." He rolled his eyes as I continued, "It was a woman."

John spit the cereal he was eating everywhere in shock, which made me chuckle. Sherlock turned his head to face John and sighed. "W-what would make you think that Sherlock would help you with anything?" John sputtered, as he started mopping up the milky mess he made.

"I figured he owed me," I say, causing Sherlock to whip his head around to look at me once more in a swift manner, with a look of exasperation coloring his eyes.

"For?" John asks, as he went to deposit his now-empty cereal bowl in the murky sink.

"Well, since I helped him dismantle most of Moriarty's crime network after his little accident," I say, my eyes still locked with Sherlock's in an ever-lasting staring contest that we seem to play every time we come within a 2 mile radius of each other, "I figured he'd want to help me finish off the last of it."

"He what?"

"We could've completely finished them off before he made his miraculous reappearance to the land of the living, too, if only he didn't run away."

"I did not run away, I do not ever run away." Sherlock said bitingly, his stare turning into a full-on glare.

"Well what would you call leaving right in the midst of our planning a full on take down of the final part of Moriarity's web of all-powerful minions?" I reply, mirroring his sharp tone, my eyes filling with accusation, not mentioning the other things we were in the midst of back then.

"So you two worked together?" John said, walking towards were Sherlock and I were seated, a tone of complete bafflement coloring the last two words of his question.

"Very efficiently, too. We demolished most of Moriarity's little organization. We could've completely rid the world of the whole crime-network business, once and for all, if only Sherlock here didn't skimp out on me last minute, running away for reasons unknown, well I've got a couple of ideas, but you know how dear Sherlock can be. Surprising." I say smoothly, my lips easing into a teasing smirk

Sherlock let out a deep, irritated sounding sigh and swiftly got up from his seat, walking straight out of my line of vision. A tingling satisfaction went up my spine, I love getting on his last nerve, it's so much fun!

"John, would you be a dear and untie me, seeing as you are now aware that I have no intention to murder either of you."

John fumbled forward and started loosening the knots that were painfully cutting off my circulation. I got up and shook my limbs to return the blood flow to them as soon as the ropes that tied me to the chair fell to the floor, and scanned the messy room, now bathed in sunlight, my eyes running over where Sherlock, who was now staring intently at his laptop, its glow illuminating his pale, sharply structured face, is seated on a frayed looking couch facing the back of the chair I was tied, to inspect the frumpy yet cozy atmosphere of 221B. It looked the same as it did in the dark, well worn and lived in, with random books and chemistry equipment strewn everywhere in what I assumed to be an organized chaos, but only more visible.

John silently retreats up the stairs as I walk into the messy kitchen casually and swing the fridge door in hopes of finding something to satisfy the stinging in my stomach, but instead of finding anything remotely edible in the fridge, as was usually expected to be found in the fridge of any normal person, I only found a couple of milk cartons, a few take-out Chinese food containers, and a severed head in a plastic sack, looking quite ghastly, but I don't flinch; it's not like I haven't ever seen a disembodied head before. I shut the fridge door gently, what was I expecting to find in there anyway? It's not like Sherlock is anything close to normal, why would he use his fridge for normal purposes? Besides, normal is boring, and that's why I like him. I turn to look through the cupboards.

"Where's the thing?" Sherlock rumbles loudly from were he was sitting in the living room.

"What thing are you referring to, dear? I've got plenty of things." I reply insouciantly, flipping open each cabinet door in hopes that I can find something to eat, which I found out is a vain effort as I flip open the final cabinet and find nothing to my liking. I sigh and say, "Do you happen to have anything edible around here?"

"I think I could help you with that," an unfamiliar female voice says. I turn around gracefully and see a pleasant looking old lady walking into the flat and smiling at me just as an adult looking at a child suffering from a terminal illness would, but she managed to make it look sweet.

"Would you like eggs or waffles, dearie?"

"You wont need to be making her anything, Mrs Hudson, Ms Adler will be on her way now as soon as she gives me what she came to deliver in the first place." Sherlock says drily as he flips open the day's newspaper that his landlady brought in with her.

"Oh don't be rude, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson scolds, as she goes to open the fridge to reveal the dead human head sitting cool on the middle shelf. She lets out a startled yelp and starts muttering under her breath. I lean down on one of the scarce clear spots of the kitchen table and say, "Just an apple or something along those lines will do, Mrs Hudson, thanks" softly, as Sherlock lets out an irritated noise.

"Well, I'm off to the hospital," John says, reentering the room and fiddling with his tie, "Call me if you need anything, you know where to reach me. Behave." He pulls down the newspaper Sherlock was reading and gives him a stern, pointed look before he rushes out of the door quickly in a manner expected of doctors. Sherlock makes a childish face and I can't help but let out a snort. He looks up to glare at me and says, "Well, do you want my help or not?"

"Be a gentleman, Sherlock, and I'll be right back with your apple, dearie." Mrs Hudson says as she follows John's footsteps out of the flat.

"No need to be so mean, Sherlock," I say, standing straight up and walking towards Sherlock with my hips swinging from side to side. I grab the newspaper out of his hands and throw it aside, perching myself daringly on his lap and throw my arms around his neck, causing Sherlock to immediately shut his eyes.

I've done this plenty of times before; got in his personal space, and he enjoyed it too, when we were on the run together. And MAN those days were fun, what with both of us "dead", picking off Moriarty's network of criminals one by one, never a dull moment. I managed to break down all his walls, which was by far the most challenging thing I did throughout the whole 8 months, 2 weeks and 4 days we spent adventuring through the world. I thought he finally admitted it to himself; he finally ALLOWED himself to admit that he cared about me. I even finally convinced him to have _dinner_ with me.

So it hurt. It did hurt when he left without a trace, without an explanation. It hurt a LOT. Not like I'm acting like it did, because the fact that this sentiment I have towards him exists is enough of a setback on it's own, I can't afford to act weak too.

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and reaches to unhook my arms from around his neck. "Not here, Miss Adler." He says in a gruff, emotionless tone. I pretend to not feel the pang in my heart. Sentiment is the exact equivalent of weakness, and weakness just isn't acceptable, I have to keep reminding myself that. I lean in onto him, ignoring his dry protest, and discreetly breathe in the smell of him I so very missed; the clean, sharp smell of shaving cream, his masculine minty shampoo, and his own personal, inimitable musky Sherlock-y smell. God, when did I turn into such a sentimental pansy?

"How about you call me Irene?" I purr as I nuzzle my face into his neck just like I used to do, and as my memory serves, I recall he used to like it when I do that too. Sherlock stiffens under me, and I repress the urge to let out a sigh. Don't let your sentiment show.

"Please." He whispers coldly, "May you please just show me what you came here to show me."

I pull my head up to look straight into his eyes in an attempt to read him, but all I see in those familiar blue eyes that I adore so much is frostiness. I pull my lips up into my trademark smirk, and say, "Why, all you had to do was ask."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Hi guys! Thank you for the reviews, every one of them is very much appreciated! I would just like to apologize for Irene seeming a bit OOC, but I'm trying I swear. Keep those reviews coming, folks! **

I hop off of his lap, figuring he has had enough for now, although I can't imagine why he isn't enjoying my presence on his lap; he used to before. Besides, I am curious to know whether my interpretation was 100% correct; it's not like I couldn't decipher it at all, I'm not stupid in the least. But I found it to be a perfect excuse to hunt Sherlock down once again, although I would hardly call simply showing up in his London flat "hunting", sometimes he was just too predictable. Besides, it's always good to have a second opinion before you go busting caps in the dark in an attempt to bring the last of a crime empire, especially if that second opinion was that of Sherlock Holmes.

I saunter over to my bag, swaying my hips in my most seductive walk. I WILL break Sherlock Holmes once again, if it's the last thing I do. Besides, breaking people is what I do best. I bend down, giving Sherlock a good view of my shapely posterior in hopes that he's watching, and pick up my tasteful leather Chanel tote. It's obviously been looked through, judging by the way my little leather notebook, where I quickly scrawled down the message I managed to take from Paula, my then "fiancee" who was tied up at that particular moment, was deviated slightly out of the pocket I keep it in, although the rest of my things are in their proper places. It's adorable how he thinks I won't pick up on these things, no matter how neat he is about messing with my stuff.

"Well Mr Holmes, since you've obviously been through my bag and found the message, care to give me your interpretation?" I say smoothly, turning to face him with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk, my little black notebook in hand. I flip open to the page where I wrote down the strange message as I fluidly approached the couch on which he was seated and lightly sat right beside him, gluing my thighs to his.

"JM tsremoo mpt OMsup gmanu; 13 Calle Manuel Valdes, Borox, Castile-La Mancha, 2209MMXIII; 2312MCMLXXIII Be there or be square."

"Do you know how your, erm source, happened to procure this information?"

"It arrived by fax, quite unorthodox nowadays I know."

"Hmm"

"I also took a picture of the original fax, but there's nothing suspicious about the sheet of paper it came on, I checked."

We sat side by side in silence as Mrs Hudson walked in with an appetizing-looking red apple in hand.

She glanced at our slightly awkward seating arrangement and smiled, clearly not thinking that it's awkward at all.

"Here you go, dearie. I didn't quite catch your name, though." She says sweetly, handing the apple to me.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson. It's Irene, by the way." I reply, gratefully accepting the apple and flashing her a dazzling smile. I know how to charm the pants off ladies too, obviously, that's what made me so good at my previous profession.

"Well aren't you lovely, Irene. Why haven't you brought her around here before, Sherlock?"

"Oh do be quiet, Mrs Hudson. Now, the first two letters are obviously Jim Moriarty's initials, which isn't much use to us as we know this scheme is affiliated with him, is it?"

"Not in the slightest." I take a crunchy bite from my apple.

"The second two phrases are anagrams for the words-"

"Post mortem Magnum Opus-"

"Meaning the greatest act after Moriarty's death. At least that way we know-"

"That Moriarty is truly dead, yes Sherlock. But didn't we agree that we knew he was dead for sure after Rio?"

"Oh you went to Brazil together? Oh how lovely, when di-"

"Mrs Hudson PLEASE!" Sherlock bellowed, his deep voice reverberating off the walls of the flat, finally loosing his stony composure to act out like a bratty child. How endearing. I watch the blood rush up his neck, making it go redder and redder with every passing second. I take another bite from my apple.

"Fine fine, you two kids carry on then!" She says merrily, unshaken by Sherlock's outburst, which apparently is a frequent occurrence according to Mrs Hudson's casual reaction. I silently chuckle as I chew on my apple.

As soon as she shuts the door of the flat behind her, Sherlock turns to face me, his neck still slightly flushed.

"Well, it's always a good sign to have a positive affirmation from within. Now, this 'Magnum Opus' business clearly means that-"

"Yes yes, it's going to be big. But wasn't that obvious? I mean they have to have a big mean come back after we tore apart most of their network which must have drastically effected not only their efficiency in making the money they were making before, but their ability to make the money in the first place." I take another bite of my apple, chewing it slowly, "This must be their last resort, which means that it's going to be a dirtier operation than Moriarty's other little businesses."

"Prostitution." Sherlock mutters, "Human sex trafficking."

"How pleasant." I say, finishing up my apple with one last bite. "How did you figure that out exactly?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Well, now that you mention it, it kind of is." I say, getting up and tossing the apple core in the kitchen bin.

"The rest is obviously an address, a date, and possibly a passcode?"

"Moriarty's birthday." I say as I walk back to the couch and slide into his lap once again in a second attempt at cracking the ever impenetrable Sherlock Holmes.

"And how did you know that?" Sherlock says, ignoring my advance in a way he knows irks me, leaning back on the back of the couch.

"Lucky guess." I say as I leaned closer towards his face.

He sat there, unmoving, our eyes boring into each other's. I quickly run my eyes down his familiar face. Same freckle in his left eye, same tiny scar right under his lower lip, same sleek eyebrows and straight pointed nose, same delectably defined cheekbones. Same old Sherlock. His eyes run down my face, too, possibly scanning it just I scanned his.

"You're using a different facial moisturizer aren't you?" He commented nonchalantly. This is the first remark he made hinting at our previous intimacy, but he can't help but show off his master deduction skills. I give him a little smile and nod, taking this little reminder of our previous relationship as a positive sign to move in on my prey, drawing my face closer to his; my lips nearly brushing his.

But suddenly, he turns his face and leans towards the little side table at the couch's edge where we were both conveniently located by to grab his phone that just vibrated in it's place, indicating that he received a text. I tried not to let the disappointment at his rejection fill my face. Emotion is weakness, and I just can't afford to look weak; I can't afford to look like his leaving me hurt me in the slightest. It shouldn't have, really, because deep down I always knew that there was a possibility that he might bolt at any second, no matter how improbable it seemed when he was holding me, when we were talking together, laughing together, having a delicious _dinner _together.

He goes back into his previous position, returning his face to being inches from mine, and fiddles with his phone indifferently. I don't let my disappointment seep into my demeanor, yet again, and watch him as a little crease forms between his eyebrows.

"I need to dash, Ms Adler, so if you would excuse me," Sherlock said pointedly, obviously waiting for me to get off of him, but I don't budge.

"Where to, Mr Holmes?"

"I've got a case to solve, seems fairly interesting."

"Why, fantastic! I'll tag along then." I say, rising to grab my coat off the back of Sherlock's armchair, the very one I was seated in last night.

"Who said you were invited?"

"Well, love, you're hardly the type to invite anyone to do anything, so I'll take it upon myself to just assume that the invitation isn't a verbal one."

"You are not invited." Sherlock says dryly, rising from his seat on the couch and walking to the wall-mounted coat hanger to retrieve his coat and scarf.

I pull my own coat on and start buttoning it up, "And who's to stop me?" I say, a smirk crawling up my face. Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh and throws me a pleading look.

"You're going to make your stay here very irritating for me, aren't you." He says, and I can't help but feel a sting in my heart. What happened to the Sherlock that couldn't get enough of me? SENTIMENT IS WEAKNESS!

"Not unless you cooperate, love," I say, flashing him a smile as I stand by the door, waiting for him to lead the way. I play it cool, after all I am the Woman. "Now, tell me more about this case..."


	4. Chapter 4

"The freak is here!"

I stride towards the dark house the taxi Sherlock and I just hopped out of pulled up at behind Sherlock, and take in the chaos that is a Scotland Yard investigation. Officers in yellow vests running around hurriedly, some with bloody hands, others carrying expensive looking equipment, and some taking notes. How intriguing. Sherlock holds the police tape up and I slide in under it before he can. If he's not going to be a gentleman, I can annoy him by forcing him to be one.

I turn to look at the woman who uttered that very dim-witted remark and see a tall-looking figure, donned in a not too flattering skirt that hugs her wide hips too tightly, and has a stain right above her left thigh, indicating that she spilled coffee on herself, possibly in the rush to get to the crime scene, and a blouse thats too loose in the bust area. Her curly hair was huge with frizz, and the smudging on her lipstick indicates that she has been taking part in some, erm, heavy osculation, although she doesn't look aesthetically appealing in the slightest, or appear to have a charming or particularly intelligent nature, giving the dense remark she made upon our arrival.

"Who's this? Are you here to file a complaint about this man following you home, Miss?" She says, turning to me and giving Sherlock a bovine smirk.

"Why no, actually, Sherlock and I were just have a very pleasant afternoon out," I reply mellifluously, snaking my arm around his flirtily, "Which must have been better than your afternoon given the state of your neck. I didn't know that being attacked by a vacuum cleaner was part of being a member of the police force." A small smirk plays around on my evenly coated blood red lips that contrast her smudgy ones as she looks at me with a look of affronted shock. Sherlock lets out a small snort of amusement as she starts fumbling about with her shirt collar in an effort to hide what she obviously thought were a non-discernible trail of hickeys.

Sherlock then starts to walk away, not giving the now-muttering policewoman a second glance, pulling me along with him as my arm was still firmly gripped around his. I let go as we enter the house, and we were immediately met by a man with a tired looking face, greying hair, and wearing one of those ridiculous blue crime-scene inspection bodysuits.

"Oh, Hello Sherlock. We actually have a witne- uuuuuuh hi." The man suddenly pauses as he gets an eyeful of me. Sherlock takes a slightly sharp intake of breath, but light enough to think I wouldn't notice, but I did. Do my ears deceive me or does Sherlock seem to be jealous? I turn to meet the man's eyes with my own, giving him my signature epicurean gaze and smirk.

"I'm Irene Adler, an acquaintance of Mr Holmes'" I purr, offering my smooth hand to him. He gratefully takes it and shakes my hand softly; I feel his fast heartbeat through his palm.

"I'm Detective-Inspector Lestrade, but please call me Greg." He says as I pull my hand out of his.

"You mentioned witnesses, Lestrade?" Sherlock pips drily, obviously trying to mask something else from seeping into his voice. He can't help but feel a possessiveness towards me, no matter how stubbornly he acts otherwise. I let the pleasure of that realization wash over me as Lestrade says, "Yes yes, the witnesses. Follow me"

"I'd like to check out the crime scene first."

"I'll leave you to it then, upstairs first door on the left, not that you won't be able to find it Sherlock. Will Miss Adler be accompanying you upstairs?"

"I hope you don't mind, Greg, but I would so love to see a real live crime scene." I quip innocently, unleashing the full power of my most persuasive looking gaze on him as Sherlock gives a single dry chortle.

"I shouldn't really, but what harm could you do, Miss Adler?"

"If you only knew." I hear Sherlock mutter mutely as he strode up the stairs, two at a time.

I follow Sherlock up the stairs in a more graceful manner, not giving Lestrade a second regard, as my eyes run over a series of family portraits hung on the wall, some of them looking a little roughed up, possibly from the criminal's violent entry and exit, all of the subjects seeming to get younger and younger as I went up the stairs. Most of these photo's said subjects were two young girls; identical twins. There was also a young boy in the ones near the bottom, but most of the pictures on the wall of this staircase were of these two, youthfully pretty young red headed girls, with freckles sprinkled all over their cheeks and toothy smiles with the occasional missing tooth. I go back down the stairs again and examine the last, and seemingly most recent photo of these two girls and examine it closely.

It's a picture of the two girls, who appear to be around the age of early teendome, possibly 14, donned in evening wear, standing next to a middle aged man with a bald spot stretching from the middle of his forehead to what I assume is the middle of his head, judging from the poor thinning comb-over said balding spot, their stances suggesting a stiff, uncomfortable formality, indicating that this man isn't one with whom they share a close relationship with, possibly an uncle or some other distant relative. Both girls are wearing dresses that starkly contrast each other; one girl donned in a frilly, pink number, her red locks curled into tight ringlets, the image of innocence, while the other girl was in a black, sleek, tight-fitting and not very age appropriate dress, her eyes smudged with black kohl. Their obvious attempts to make themselves look nothing like each other is an obvious sign of attempted rebellion that is common in the early stages of adolescence. How adorable.

Figuring that this picture might be of some importance later on in this investigation, and wanting to be the most helpful little detective's assistant, I decide I should take a picture of it for later reference. I pull out my phone and type in the passcode, SHER; I put the same riddle that I had on my other hone as the passcode of my new, less lavish and valuable phone as a joke to myself, a constant reminder that he was the curious man to break me without ever intending to; a constant reminder of my weakness, so as I won't be compelled to go through with any action to give me another.

I quickly tap on the camera icon and snap a quick picture, and lock my phone, sliding it back into my purse. I take another few steps and examine the next picture on the staircase, the glass covering it slightly smashed; one of the little boy alone on an empty beach, the dim lighting of an apparently rising sun softly illuminating his cherubic face. I lean in to examine the photo closer and hear Lestrade's voice say, "He's the witnesses I mentioned, we found him shivering in a cupboard, poor little guy."

I turn to him and smile, saying "Indeed."

"You seem to be quite an expert at this sleuthing business."

"It's more of a hobby of mine, really. I'll just be heading up now." I reply breezily, flashing him a tight smile. I was so deep in thought that I didn't notice him watch me. I'm usually a lot more perceptive of my surroundings, I don't know what's gotten in to me.

"For godssakes Holmes! Would you please just put on the bloody bodysuit! You're already breaching protocol by passing the yellow tape OUTSIDE the house in the first place!"

"Oh do shut up Anderson, hearing you try to talk and breathe at the same time is quite repulsive."

I smirk at Sherlock's dry retort at the remark that the nasal voice of another man made as I climb the last step lightly. I step into the small, dark room and am immediately accosted by the rusty stench of blood. I peer around the room, ignoring the man who I assume was the one to irk Sherlock, who is currently gawking at me. I roll my eyes mentally. Men.

As my eyes adjust to the dimness of the room, I take in the scene before me, and the first thing I register seeing is the blood heavily coating the pink walls. The entire room is literally bathed in blood, really; the worn-looking sofa, the little TV, it's blue-lit screen visible between the dried blood that formed rivulets on it, the stuffed animals on shelves mounted on the walls, the discarded toys on the floor, and the carpet. That's going to be a tough stain to get out of that carpet. But how could all this blood possibly have wound up splattered everywhere so savagely? Judging from the size of the blood sploshes, the blood must have been hurtled at the walls pretty forcefully.

"Why helloooo there." I roll my eyes physically this time as I walk further into the room to examine its bloody contents closer.

"Now's hardly the time to try and amuse my apprentice with you trivial nattering, Anderson. I am aware that you're attention span isn't the most resilient, but please try to keep it professional, after all you're the one with 'actual permission' to be in here aren't you?" Sherlock snarks moodily, the words "actual permission" seeping with sarcasm. I turn to look at the annoyingly nasal-sounding man.

"I'd hardly call myself your apprentice, Mr Holmes." I coo, and the Anderson man turns to look at me, looking like a boy who just stumbled on a surprise bag of candy that isn't his.

"I'm-"

"Extremely sloppy by the looks of you. I see it IS quite common for the esteemed men and women of Scotland Yard to be attacked by vacuum cleaners. Is it a daily occurrence?" I reply, my voice oozing with cloying sarcasm. He does really look quite sloppy too, with his patchy beard, his scraggly hair, and a smudge of lipstick that matches that of the dim-witted policewoman from downstairs on the collar of his shirt that is visibly peaking out of one of the ridiculous blue bodysuit, identical to the one he tried to get Sherlock to wear. Not to mention the fact that he also has a trail of trashy love bites spattered sporadically down his neck, displayed shamelessly for the world to see as though they were medals of honor. How philistine.

I turn to Sherlock, who was trying hard not to appear amused at his "apprentices'" wit, and say, "Now tell me more about this abduction case."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock can't help BUT smile because I'm obviously the only one who caught on to this abduction business, by the looks of it, because that blockhead Anderson says, "It was actually a murder", still sounding quite stupefied by my previous statement, but Sherlock and I ignore him, as he continues to smile at me and I continue to watch him smiling at me, enjoying every moment of his attention. I try not to feel as though Sherlock isn't insulting my intelligence by looking so damn happy about having someone as smart as him in the room; I'm pretty sure that I've established that I'm just as smart as he is on plenty of occasions.

"What kind of murder would it have been with all this blood everywhere? You could only achieve such results by chopping off the victim's head and squeezing out all the blood in them, and even then you can't make the blood splay out of them with enough force to make such big splashes of blood on the wall. The diameter of each blood splash is wide enough to indicate that it didn't come spewing from anyone's neck, that kind of big splash needs a large amount of force behind it, obviously, therefore ruling out the possibility of a murder. This blood is some amateur decoy." I say flippantly, which causes Sherlock's eyes to widen with glee.

"But the DNA tests conclude that the blood on those walls belong to the victims-"

"And why would the police possibly have the DNA samples of two adolescent girls?"

"How did you know that they were two girls-"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock quips from beside me, suddenly stepping forward and opening up his little magnifying glass, kneeling down to examine the carpet more closely. I'm glad he thought it was obvious too.

"How could you possibly tell the gender and age of the victims from a pool of-"

"The pictures on the staircase." I reply, kneeling down next to Sherlock, I hear some light applause come from the doorway, and I turn to see Lestrade, watching me with an amazed smile on his face.

"Quite impressive." He says softly. Sherlock looks up and throws Lestrade a look of disgust. Apparently Lestrade never tells Sherlock that he's impressive. But then again, Sherlock isn't me. I give Lestrade a small wink, just to shake Sherlock up a bit. After that smile he gave me, I'm 100% sure he does care about me. I can feel it, and my feelings are never wrong.

"But how do the police have records of these girls' DNA?" I remark as I pull myself off of the floor and smoothening the skirt of my two-day old dress.

"They're regular blood donors, and have donated blood fairly recently." Sherlock says monotonously, also rising from the floor whilst shutting his little compact magnifying glass.

"How on earth-" Lestrade begins to say, but Sherlock swiftly turns around to face him and say, "How else would someone be able to procure such a large amount of blood AND how would the police know of the two victims', who I'm fairly sure weren't ex-convicts, blood type otherwise? Besides, there are two Red Cross donor cards on the table near the front door hallway that read 'Ashley Potts' and 'Aubrey Potts', which I'm assuming are the names of the two victims, am I correct?"

"When are you ever not." Replies Lestrade with a sigh.

"Oh I could think of a couple of occasions." I mutter, and Sherlock turns to look at me. I give him a wink, and he just turns around to face Lestrade once more.

"When can I meet with the witness, is he downstairs?"

"Hold up, the poor kid isn't ready to be put under your brand of interrogation just yet, Sherlock, he's quite beaten up."

"Oh he has a brand of interrogation now does he?" I say curiously, and Sherlock lets out a shallow sigh.

"He's actually quite relentless and rough. Not very merciful."

"Oh I'm quite familiar with how Sherlock likes it rough." I say slyly, causing Sherlock to let out an even deeper, more irritated sigh. Anderson's jaw drops quite unattractively, and Lestrade suddenly goes a deep shade of red and starts fumbling with his jacket.

"You've mentioned that this isn't the first crime of this nature, am I correct Lestrade?" Sherlock says, fiddling in his pockets as Lestrade says, "Yes. It's been happening all around the country. And the curious thing is that all the people that have been murdered, well except these two who have seemingly gone missing are-"

"Young female twins." I say, piecing the information together in my brain as Sherlock takes a scalpel-esque metal tool from the chest pocket of Anderson's bodysuit and scraping a sample of the dry blood and placing it carefully in a petri dish that he extracted from one of his many coat pockets.

Sherlock looks up from the petri dish and our eyes lock as he realizes the weight of what I just said. I think the lasts of Moriarty's empire's actions involve a certain theme. He screws the lid on the dish shut and stashes it in his pocket, returning the scalpel to Anderson's pocket and turning to Lestrade once again. "And do all the crime scenes look similar to this one, too?"

"Well, yes."

Sherlock and I share another glance, and then he says, "I guess we'll be off then. Lestrade." He says, nodding at him and walking swiftly out the door. I also nod at Lestrade and follow Sherlock, but at a slower pace. I walk through the dark house and pass by that Donnovan lady again, but I don't give her a second glance as I follow Sherlock out the door of the house.

He raises the police tape, and passes under it, letting it fall after him as he approaches the street and walks down the sidewalk towards the main road. "Slow down there, tiger!" I call out from behind him, as I approach the tape, and a policeman holds it up for me. I walk under it without acknowledging his effort and follow Sherlock, keeping my graceful pace. He stops at the curb, and holds his arm up for a taxi.

"You aren't going to get away from me that easily." I say as I walk up beside him.

"I'm sure." He says drily, not turning to look at me as his eyes remain scanning the dark streets for a cab.

We stand in silence until a cab pulls up. Sherlock opens the door and hops in, and I hop in behind him. Our ride to 221B Baker Street is silent, with Sherlock gazing out the window, thinking silently, and I watch him. I always used to watch Sherlock whenever he'd go on his little introverted "Mind Palace" with such interest. He'd zone out completely and tune out everything around him and just sit still, thinking.

I understand why he left me, after all, he knows better than anyone that sentiment is weakness. But he broke me just as much as I broke him, and I know for a fact that no matter how well you think you mend something broken, there will always be cracks. And I plan on attacking those cracks with everything I've got. I will have him back, because even though my feelings towards him only make me more vulnerable, I realized that it's all the more reason I should make him mine forever. That way I can at least guard my weakness even closer.

Who am I kidding. The car lurches to a stop in front of the flat, and Sherlock pays the cabbie and hops out of his side of the car. I hop out of mine and follow him into through the front door. We walk to the door of 221B in silence and he swiftly takes out his keys and unlocks the door without a word. He swings the door open and strides in, and I follow suit.

"Hello Sherlock, Where did Ir- oh." John begins to say from his armchair, but stops when his question is answered. He looks very cozy with his reading glasses in hand and a book in his lap. Quaint. Sherlock ignores him and heads into the kitchen and opens the fridge door, probably to check on his little friend. I chuckle and head to the couch, and gently sit down, looking at the clock atop the mantle of the fire place, which reads 6:02. It took forever for us to get back here, I forgot how horrid London traffic could be.

Sherlock takes out the head from the fridge and plops it down on the counter, opening the clear plastic sack it's in, and John and I silently watch. I guess this is the only type of entertainment 221B has to offer. And it's pretty sad that I find this entertaining. But when in Rome...


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: To all those who were requesting the ending to my other fic, "The Best Promises", in the reviews of the previous chapter of this fic. It's up. You're welcome. Please review the content of THIS chapter in the review section of THIS CHAPTER. All reviews are very much appreciated and motivational and loved and inspirational and fill me with the fuzzies. Keep 'em coming. xxx **

"Sherlock love, could I borrow a shirt? My travel bag got delayed and it isn't getting delivered till tomorrow. I can't possibly stay in this dress for another night."

Sherlock lets out a moody sigh and grabs a shirt of his off a chair in his bedroom. He didn't acknowledge me when I followed him into his bedroom, so I took it as a sign to help myself to anything in here.

"Thank you." I say. He doesn't even look away from the bookshelf he's searching.

He's not paying attention and I don't like it. But I can think of a way to change that.

I swiftly unzip my dress from behind and let it fall to the floor, leaving me in my nice, lacy underwear. I see Sherlock's back tense up ever so slightly, and I see his eyes flit to the mirror for a second to check out my almost-bare body. I've still got it. I bend down to pick the shirt he threw to me, as I let it fall to the floor so I can do exactly this.

"I hope you don't mind sharing your bed tonight, Sherlock" I say softly as I gracefully perch myself on the left side of his bed. I always used to sleep on the left side when we were on the run together.

"Sleeping slows me down." He says monotonously.

"Oh, right. Could you lend me a set of towels too? I need to take a shower." He walks to his wardrobe, still not turning around to face me, and flings it open. He grabs a set of black towels and finally turns to face me. He reaches me in two strides and hands me the towels. I look into his eyes, and even though they look just as cold as ever, I could've sworn that I saw something stirring behind them for the briefest second.

After my nice, hot shower, I stride into Sherlock's room only wearing my silk panties and his shirt, but Sherlock, who's still searching his bookshelf, apparently doesn't take notice of my entrance. I lie down on Sherlock's queen sized bed and slowly start to relax every muscle in my body for the first time in months, and it feels great. Normally I wouldn't let my guard down around any living being, but I found myself able to do that after spending my second month with Sherlock, even though we don't quite share the same relationship we did before. I stretch my back lazily and pull the covers on top of me. Smells just like him. I take a deep breath, and his smell rushes over me. Of course his scent smells more potent at the source, but I'll take what I can get. I know that sentiment is weakness, but can't a girl have a little time for indulgence every once in a while?

Sherlock stays in the room, and I start to slowly drift into slumber, but on my own terms this time. The last thing I hear is Sherlock silently shuffling out the door.

The soft opening notes of Clair De Lune echo around us as Sherlock pulls me tighter into his arms, swaying me along with him to the beat.

"You're quite a good dancer, Mr Holmes, I'm surprised."

"Haven't you learned that I'm full of surprises yet, Ms Adler?"

The second riff starts to play and he twirls me around gracefully, making the skirt of my shiny tan Oscar De La Renta number swivel around my waist. Just because we're on a mission bringing down an ex-ally drug lord friend of Moriarty's doesn't mean I can't dress nicely.

He pulls me to him once more and returns his arm in it's place around my waist, his hand resting on the small of my back.

"May I be so bold as to say that you look absolutely prepossessing tonight, Ms Adler." He whispers into my ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine. I tilt my head upwards to meet his eyes, and I see him smiling down at me.

"Thank you. You look quite dashing yourself."

"I try." He twirls me again, making me see the pristine ballroom around me in a sparkly blur. He pulls me straight back into his warm arms, and I rest my head on his nicely defined chest and sigh.

"Only for me, I'm sure."

We sway in each other's arms silently, enjoying the feel of each other in each other's arms until the song ends. I look up at him and give him a coy smile.

"Time to get to business." I say, dropping my arms from where they rested around his soft, snug neck.

"Be careful." He says, not releasing me from his iron grip around my waist. Not that I really want to be released, but we've got a job to do.

"Aren't I always?" I say sultrily. I pull myself out of his arms and saunter over to the spot where I left my little clutch with the chain on it whilst scanning the room in search for our target.

I spot him over across the room, laughing with a balding man and a thin, reedy redheaded woman in a slightly gaudy feathery black Givenchy gown, all of them with champagne flutes in their hands. That's him. Mr Francois Jean. A former client of mine who couldn't stop coming back for more; a big erm, supporter of mine since the beginning of my dominatrix days. He was the first person to bring Moriarty to my attention. Guess that means he brought his funeral upon himself.

I take out my trust little compact mirror from my bag and check my reflection. Flawless as usual. I take a deep breath and click it shut and slide it back into its place in my clutch. I turn to meet Sherlock's eyes from across the ballroom, and I see him looking at me with a look of worry on his face. He's such a silly boy. I give him a licentious wink and start to strut over to where Mr Jean is standing.

He catches sight of me walking over to him, and his draw drops all the way to the floor. He immediately walks away from the couple who he was just laughing with, as the man was obviously describing something while making risible hand gestures, but stops, looking offended as the part of his audience that he was trying to impress just walked off.

"Mademoiselle Adler." He says, as he skip runs to me. I guess I was missed after my supposed death.

"Francois."

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" He exclaims in his heavy French accent, looking like a bewildered ape, his bald head going red.

"Do I look dead to you, Francois?"

"N-not in the slightest. You look q-q-quite ravishing actually." Oh God, he's shaking. He doesn't look like the type of man to shake at the sight of a woman like me though, as he towers over me clearly with his 6 foot frame, and he must at least be 3 times as wide as I am.

"Don't I always?" I purr, taking his arm. I feel his pulse accelerate violently from the top of his arm. "Would you like me to remind you of exactly how ravishing I could be?"

"I can't think of anything I'd like to do better, Irene."

"Call me Miss Adler."

"Anything you say, Miss Adler."

I lead him out of the ballroom, and he doesn't ask any questions. But before we walk out into the night, my eyes quickly scan the room for the familiar figure of Sherlock. He isn't there, as according to plan. All systems go.

I silently walk towards the hotel's main exit leading the way for this shaking, nervous wreck of a drug lord who is literally responsible for stocking every single drug dealer in Western Europe with any kind of drug one could think of. You'd think that the man behind that kind of an operation would be German or Italian or of the likes, but then again, expectations can be deceiving. And Mr Jean here is about to find out just that.

I lead him to the car that Sherlock and I have arranged to take Mr Jean and I to the last place he will ever visit, and he doesn't even asks questions. He just hops in after me, looking frightened yet lovingly at me like a puppy that was just beaten with a sledge hammer. The car lurches into motion and Mr Jean grabs me by the waist and stuffs his tongue in my mouth quite ungracefully. I press my lean fingers into a pressure point on his neck and he immediately freezes up.

"You seem to have forgotten about how this goes, haven't you, Francois?"

"My apologies, Miss A-" I slap him hard across the face, thrusting him back across the seat. He freezes up for a second, and turns to look at me with a devilish grin on his face.

"I think my memory is starting to come back to me."

He starts to shakily unzip his pants, and I struggle to not gag to myself. I'm a professional after all. I grasp his wrist firmly,

"Wait till we get to where we're going, Francois. What kind of woman do you take me for." I say, with the irony of my statement oozing from my voice. I hear a snort from the front and I kick the seat as discreetly as I can. But Jean doesn't seem to notice as he stops unzipping his pants and puts his hands firmly on his lap, covering up his obvious excitement. I'm getting the feeling that he's a little nervous. I turn to look at the sparkling Parisian lights, and try to distract myself by watching how the sparkly lights reflect against the driver's familiar mop of soft black curls in front of me.

After a silent 5 minutes, I turn to Jean and say, "Well Francois, you've been a bad, bad boy." I take out some coiled up rope from under the driver's seat in front of me and see Jean's eyes widen.

"Oui" He whispers, sounding strangled. I give him my most sensual smile and begin straddle him, tying his hands and legs together, like one would tie a rabid cow down so it wouldn't thrash violently, and he doesn't complain, yet again.

"I hope you aren't too comfortable, Francois."

"Not in the slightest, Miss Adler." The door on his side flies open and I see Sherlock's long arms reach into the car and pull this obviously heavy man out with a shocking agility, plopping him on the cold sidewalk of the desolate Parisian side road we parked on. And that's when the heavy man begins to writhe frantically, sensing that this wasn't part of my act.

"Oh quiet down y-OW!" He suddenly hits me square in the jaw with his jerky, restricted movements as I was climbing out of the car behind him, causing me to accidentally split my lower lip open painfully. I let out a little frustrated yelp and grab around the back seat of the car for my clutch. I wrench it open and take out one of my trusty sedative needles and sink it right where I knew it would hurt him most; right in the thin skinned nook of his collar bone. He let out a loud yelp but Sherlock smacked him in the back of his forcefully, efficiently silencing him until the drug took effect and knocked him out completely.

"That might leave a mark on him for his autopsy." I point out, ignoring the unpleasant rusty taste now seeping into my mouth.

"They won't be able to preform an autopsy on a pile of ashes now will they? Are you alright?" Sherlock says, kicking the now unconscious man aside unceremoniously to get a closer look at me. He reaches a hand towards my face to swipe the blood of my cut lip with his thumb, and uses his other hand to tilt my chin up, so he could get a better look.

"Fuss over me when we've finished the job, Sherlock love. Now help me get this buffoon into the building." I say, gently pulling my face out of his tender hold and bend down to pick up the prostrate drug lord. Sherlock bends down with me and we both lift him together.

As soon as we get him into the sketchy looking abandoned house, provided to us by the ever so helpful French government who wants this crook of their backs, and through calling up the assistance of a certain member of the Holmes family who also happens to be the entire British government and is aiding us (Well, only Sherlock, according to his knowledge) in our mission to disassemble everything Moriarty has ever worked for, we throw him into the middle of the building's center room, filled with the fire starting equipment and quickly exit the building arm in arm.

As we hop into the car; Sherlock in the driver's seat and me in shotgun, he presses a button on his cellphone and puts it back in his pocket. As we drive away, I begin to see the smoke billow out from the spot we just left behind. One would be worried about this very powerful drug lord's cronies coming after us for offing their boss, but Sherlock and I kind of completely disassembled his entire multi-national operation before we went to the ball. All in a day's work.

Sherlock stops the car suddenly and turns to look at me. I look outside to check where we are and see that we are on the busy, bustling main street right in front of the Eiffel Tower.

"Why'd you stop, Sherlock?" I say, turning to him. He takes my face gently in his hand once more and uses the other to switch on the lights inside the car with one swift press of a button atop his head.

"Stop talking." He says, pressing his finger delicately to my lips to stop them from moving whilst examining them closely.

"It's nothing fatal, just a little scratch."

"I wouldn't want anything harming those lips of yours, Miss Adler."

"Why?" I whisper as he leans closer to me. I start to smell his sweet breath. He kisses me softly, not bothering to answer my question, which he does whenever he thinks a question is too stupid to answer. Besides, the answer IS right in front of me.

My hands go to gently hold his head; my fingers run through his soft, dark curls. One of his hands remains under my chin, while the other goes to tenderly encircle my waist. He pulls away from the kiss and rests his forehead against mine.

"Today, I realized that I absolutely cannot stand the sight of you kissing someone other than me."

"Really."

"Irene Adler." He whispers my name softly, as though testing how it rolls off his tongue. "I-"

BRRIIIIIINNNNGGGG

A ringing noise makes the scene pop right out of my head. My eyes fly open to examine the dark room. I turn to the nightstand and see my phone, vibrating in it's place. I pick it up. The screen reads "Paula".


	7. Chapter 7

Perfect. I woke up from my goddamn flashback just as it was getting to the good part for this. I don't move to answer the phone, I'll let it ring itself out, stupid Paula. I have to remember to go back and kill her off. God, why didn't I just kill her off right when I got that dumb message from her. I have to remember to destroy my stupid SIM card first thing tomorrow morning; she might try to track me down. I roll over in the bed and take another deep breath of the Sherlock-y scent and grumble.

SHE MIGHT TRY TO TRACK ME DOWN. CRAP. I jolt upwards and grab my phone as it's still ringing. I flip it to the back and remember that these new smart phones have a separate compartment for the SIM card. Shit. I hop out of the bed quite ungracefully, which isn't like me. But then again, I don't usually forget to do such simple, obvious things like destroy my SIM card when I don't want to be tracked. I run over to the light switch, flick it on, and quickly scan the room for anything that looks remotely thin enough to open this stupid SIM compartment. But obviously, I wont be able to find something this small from scanning the room from this distance. Damn it.

My needles. They'd probably be thin enough to fit in this stupid little hole! I grab my bag and take out one of the needles. I slowly put it in the little hole and the hole SIM compartment snaps up. Success! I shake the stupid SIM that caused more panic than its worth snap it in half. There.

I let out a deep sigh of relief. Since when am I not thorough? I'm always super thorough. I guess I got so exited at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again I forgot to be SMART. Stupid sentiment, it's only causing me trouble. I berate myself over and over for being such an idiot in my head as I put the needle back in its place and gently set my bag in place on the floor. I slowly sit back down on the bed and cover myself with the comforter, sniffing it.

What a fool sentiment has turned me into. I've got to get a grip on myself.

I crawl back to where I was previously sleeping peacefully and lie down in the same position, this time closing my eyes and forcing myself to go into a deep, and this time, dreamless sleep. But before I drift out of consciousness completely, I could've sworn that I saw the door crack a little to reveal Sherlock checking in on me.

But then again, it might just be my desperate sentiment-meddled brain playing tricks on me.

"Your suitcase arrived."

I groan again. Why is it when I finally have a nice, decent bed to sleep on I keep getting interrupted? I flip around to lie on my stomach and make a couple of unintelligible noises. Screw this shit. Doesn't Sherlock remember how much I hate waking up in the morning? Or is he too busy pretending that all that went down between us didn't happen. Ugh, whatever.

I hear a heavy plop on the floor and the door lightly close but not shut all the way, and I hear every single individual clattering sound and footstep from the living room and kitchen. I guess that's Sherlock's smooth way of telling me to wake up. I groan and roll once again in the bed. But suddenly, I hear the heavy front door open and an annoyingly familiar voice say, "Good morning little brother."

Mycroft.

I quickly run over the facts in my head. There's no point in pretending that I'm still dead as Sherlock and I almost completely annihilated the very organization that was threatening the both of us, which was mostly thanks to Myrcroft's very useful connections. So why shouldn't I have a little fun? I hear his heavy footsteps as he walks into the living room. I roll out of bed and plant my bare feet on the floor. I saunter out of Sherlock's bedroom and straight into the living room, wearing nothing but Sherlock's shirt and my lace panties, and watch Mycroft as he catches sight of me. His jaw drops. It's nice to be at least be able to catch one of the Holmes boys by surprise.

"Missed me?" I purr as I saunter over to where Sherlock is standing, glaring at his older brother with annoyance. I reach him and look him straight in his icy blue eyes, my smirk growing wider on my face. I elevate myself on my tiptoes so my mouth would reach his ear.

"Let's have us some fun, shall we darling?" I whisper breathily. I lower myself and catch him smirking. I guess he agrees to play along as he snakes his arm around my waist. Mycroft lets out a very loud groan and drops his head into his hands.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into." He says, the annoyance in his voice not muffled by his hands.

"You don't seem too surprised to see me, Mr Holmes." I say, and Sherlock snorts.

"Well, I knew that it would take Sherlock to fool me, no matter how thorough I though I was being, but it's quite obvious to see that Sherlock obviously had his reasons to keep you alive."

"What brings you here on what was a perfectly pleasant morning, Mycroft?" Sherlock drawls, as he walks towards his armchair, pulling me by my waist along with him. Mycroft looks up and sees Sherlock sit down in the armchair opposite to where he was sitting, pulling me down on his lap, which used to be a frequent seat of mine. I smile as I see Mycroft squirm at the sight of Sherlock and I being intimate as I lean my head and rest it in the crook of Sherlock's smooth neck.

"Well, I was here to inform you of a peculiar happening, but I was under the impression that you would be alone."

"Oh, so you didn't think I'd be here." John pipes from where he was seated in the kitchen, reading the morning's paper while eating his breakfast. We all ignore him.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous Mycroft, just tell me what you obviously thought was important enough to make a personal visit for instead of simply texting me and get going. I have more important matters to attend to." Mycroft glances to me, and my provocative smirk widens across my face. His face contorts with disgust. This is so much fun.

I glance at upwards at Sherlock from where I'm leaning on him and see his amused smirk. I can see that he's having fun too. I hear John get up, the chair's legs scraping the floor as he pushes it back so he can get up. His jaw drops when he sees me and Sherlock's intimate intertwinement, the shock in his eyes reading, "What the HELL happened last night."

"Well, there have been a number of-"

"Strange disappearances disguised as murders?" Sherlock cuts him off, sounding bored.

"We're already on that Mycroft. You're getting slow." I say, as he throws me a look of pure annoyance.

"Is that all you came to tell me about?"

"Well, we suspect that all these victims are being taken by-"

"The lasts of Moriarty's organization to be a part of a quirky little prostitution ring, yes Mycroft, we KNOW that. Why would I come back to London unless I came bearing good news?" Mycroft throws me a puzzled look.

"You didn't really think Sherlock did all of that crime-fighting alone, did you?" I say, giving him a sickly sweet smile.

"Well did you know that they were taking these girls were being transported to-"

"Spain." I say nonchalantly, causing Sherlock to chuckle drily.

"In trucks. Livestock transport trucks. Across the borders. We almost detained them, too, but they managed to escape." He continues cooly, as though I never interrupted him.

"Well, your bunch must be quite rubbish at catching crooks, then, because it was fairly easy for Sherlock and I to not only catch, but completely destroy complete crime operations that were part of Moriarty's organization. And we were only two people. No wonder you wished your lot was half as good as I was." I say fluidly, reminding him of the last time we met. The time I had him completely convinced that I beat him, and I would've too if Sherlock didn't crack my little secret.

"I would greatly appreciate it if you were to nip this little international scandal in the making in the bud before it grows too out of hand, brother. As in, find out exactly where they are being taken, and-"

"Need I remind you once again, Mycroft, that I am not your personal errand boy. I'll get on it when I feel like it." Sherlock says with a tone of finality ringing in his voice.

"I am well aware of that, but there are a few erm, loose ends, that I can't quite figure out, and since tying up loose ends is more of your field, I figured you'd enjoy-"

"The people running this ring are hardly geniuses, I should know, I almost married one of them." I say. Mycroft stiffens and raises an eyebrow so high that it looks like it's gonna fly off his forehead.

"Right. Well, I'll text you the details of what I cant exactly figure out within the hour, Sherlock. Good day." He says, nodding at Sherlock and turning to nod at John, who's still standing in the same spot, looking puzzled.

"Good day, indeed." I say, planting a big kiss on Sherlock's neck, right where his pulse started to beat faster as Mycroft turned to throw me a retaliating look of contempt at my sarcastic comment which morphed into a look of alarm at the sight of my lips on his little brother's neck. Mycroft leaves in a huff, and my lips linger on Sherlock's neck, counting his heartbeats.

His heart's beating hard and fast, and seemed to be going faster with every second my lips linger on his neck. I knew it.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Hi guys! Thanks for all the reviews, every single one of them makes my heart overflow with gleeful unicorn tears of sparkles and world-peace making powers. I'm sorry if this chapter seems like it's going no where, but I promise it will get less boring in the chapters to come. Shit's about to heat up, folks. **

** Happy Valentine's Day, my lovely readers, and remember to keep the reviews coming! XOXO **

"Right then. I've got to get to the hospital now. Be good, you two." John says. It's been 23 minutes since Mycroft's huffy departure, and Sherlock and I are sitting at opposite ends of the room. I'm sitting in his favorite armchair, still dressed in his shirt and munching on an apple I grabbed from a little basket filled with apples just like the one Mrs Hudson gave me yesterday, probably also courtesy of the very kind Mrs Hudson. Sherlock is fiddling with his computer, probably recording whatever results he got from his severed head experiment. That stupid head almost gave me a heart attack when I walked into the kitchen to get my breakfast apple. It is quite disgusting.

I give John a sarcastic little smile as he walks past me, and he just gives me a look of pure fear as he exits the door. He's probably thinking about how he doesn't want to leave his poor little Sherlock with a blood thirsty monster like me. Adorable. I take a bite of my crispy apple and sigh. Sherlock doesn't look up.

"Your phone was being awfully noisy last night. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep the noise down when I'm working from now on." Sherlock says drily, not looking past his computer's screen. Well, if he's not going to pay proper attention to me while making a request, I'm going to ignore him.

I get out of the armchair seamlessly and step lightly to inspect his mantle piece. I see his little skull friend, yellowing with age. Sherlock does seem to have a thing for disembodied heads. I pick up the skull and weigh it in my unoccupied hand.

"Put it back." Sherlock says, I turn to look at him and he appears to not have looked up from the computer, but the little shift in the collar of his plain white shirt suggests that he's probably been watching me. He thinks he's so unreadable. I smile to myself and scan the room for something to do to provoke him into reacting.

I saunter over to the kitchen and catch Sherlock's reflection in the shuttered window. He's definitely checking me out, or trying to deduce my every action; he's obviously interested. I spin around abruptly, catching the observing Sherlock by surprise. You can tell he doesn't wear that look on his face often; it settles oddly on his face, making it scrunch up darlingly. I can't help but smile.

"It's so much fun trying to watch you solve me like one of your little mysteries, Sherlock love." He doesn't look down embarrassedly, as he's Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes does nothing of the sort. Instead, he looks me in the eyes, and the little crease I love so much scrunches up between his brows. Bless.

"If you have questions, all you've got to do is ask." I say softly. There's no use in being all prickly with Sherlock. He doesn't respond with his adorable biting sarcasm like he used to. He stays silent. I lean against the mantle and study him, and I then realize that I am a sappy victim of sentiment, I am literally sentiment's bitch. And I should just suck it up and not be such a pansy, because his resolve isn't going to melt so easily; he masks his feelings superbly. I'm quite envious, actually. I shouldn't invest too much of myself in one go, or I WILL be beaten. And I don't like being beaten, let alone being beaten twice by the same man. I need to get out of his vicinity, fast. A little part of me hopes that if he suddenly remove myself from around him, he'd soften up towards me, making my goal easier.

Fine, whatever. I should go get some sleuthing done anyway, I'm not only here to get Sherlock back. I'm here to take some ex-Moriarty allies down, too. I walk into Sherlock's room and throw my big, sleek Samsonite travel bag open and see that Sherlock has been through it. Obviously. Silly boy thinks he does such a neat job, going through my things, but he always leaves slight, but painfully obvious indicators, like the fact that he returned my folded articles of clothing back in the wrong order. Silly silly Sherlock. I take out one of my pressed dresses and a pair of shoes from the bottom. I also take out my laptop from where it sat at the bottom of the suitcase aside. I need to check up on my company and order the bank to fill up my credit card. I really really need to get some shopping done, and since I'm in a town with some decent boutiques, I need to get my shopping done as soon as possible.

I get dressed quickly, and put my hair in it's usual simple yet elegant updo, and apply some glittery blue liner right about my upper lash line, brush some mascara across my lashes, and coat my lips in blood red lipstick. I slip on my pretty shoes and pick up my laptop from it's spot on the floor. I flip it open while I go to sit on the John's armchair, opposite to where Sherlock is working. I open up my emails and respond to the most urgent ones, write careful instructions to the second-in-command of the advertising empire I built up in the two years and 8 months since Sherlock left me in Argentina, after we busted a mass intercontinental weapon dealer, flat out alone.

But instead of going after him, I just went to New York and used my saved emergency money; I always have a back up plan. And to start up an advertising business, which was promoted by some of my very influential ex-clientele who were more than eager to help, was actually quite a clever back up plan, as it worked flawlessly and left me with an endless supply of money. Now, I run one of the most governmentally supported companies in the US and I make a tidy profit off of it monthly; way more than enough to allow me to live my lavish lifestyle, which I was enjoying quite contently until I saw my window of opportunity to attack the lasts of the Moriarty operation; hence, I seduced Paula into almost marrying me.

I didn't go after Sherlock because I thought he needed some alone time, or he thought it was time to go back to tell everyone who cares that he isn't, in fact, dead. He still left me, completely and utterly alone without giving me any sort of explanation. Needless to say that I was angry. I thought he'd come after me, and I was even angrier when he didn't. But I got over it. There wasn't any logical reason for me to be mad at Sherlock for leaving me without it being linked to sentiment. And sentiment is useless, although I am completely struck by it. How could such a useless thing bring me down? But then again, what else would drive me to come back here, proving my revelation. It's not like I NEED Sherlock to help me disassemble this dumb operation. I mean, the people who run it ARE pretty dull.

Whatever. I double check the emails I send out, making sure that I mention all the necessary points and make all the critical orders specifically, shutting it after I hit "Send". I walk into Sherlock's room and put it back on the top of my suitcase. Now, I can leave. I pick up my purse and glance at my now lifeless phone on the night stand, as I haven't charged it in a while. I pick it up and put it in my bag. I walk out of the room and walk through the living room, in front of Sherlock, towards the door. And just as I was pulling it down door handle, Sherlock says, "Where are you going?"

"I don't see how it's any of your business, Sherlock love. But don't you worry your pretty little head, I'll be back." I say, stepping out of the house. I start to climb down the stairs nimbly, and suddenly I feel large fingers encircle the top of my arm. Now he decides to be all territorial? I need to get some shopping done.

"Let go of me." I say curtly.

"How are you going to leave without a phone?" Sherlock says, spinning me forcefully around to look at him.

"I think I can take care of myself." I say, smiling at a sudden, obvious realization as I pull my arm out of his grasp with a sudden twist. He quickly grabs hold of my wrist. I let out a deep sigh. He seems to keep conveniently forgetting that I like to be in charge. I suddenly flip my arm around, in turn spinning him, and I manage to take Sherlock Holmes by surprise. Twice in one morning. I'm pretty sure I just set a record. I press him to the wall quite roughly and lean in to whisper in his ear.

"You've been treating me like some pest that you can't seem to get rid of since the moment I got here. Why do you care that I'm leaving without a way of you contacting me?" I whisper angrily, not even trying to be all sultry-seductive for once. In fact, I'm trying hard to NOT come off like that. Sherlock remains silent. Good. I let go of him and strut down the remaining stairs. I walk down Baker Street and raise my hand to hail a cab, and within 7 seconds, one parks in front of me. Perks of being me, I guess.

I hop in and flash the cabbie a smile. He smiles back as I tell him to just drive me to Bond Street. I lean back and look at the scenes of London flashing before me, thinking of the dramatic scene that just transpired on the staircase. Why on earth is he acting like he cares now? Being all territorial? What's his game? But a sudden, unexpected little chime sound rings from the pocket of my coat. I swiftly search around my pocket for it and pull out an alien silver little phone.

"Since you don't have any form of communication on you seeing how you slapdashedly destroyed your SIM card, I took the liberty of supplying you with a new phone. Your welcome. -SH"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I apologize for giving you yet another boring chapter. But I felt the need to showcase a bratty Sherlock and a hardy Irene to make them more like themselves as I've been feeling like they're both going too OOC. Your opinions are heard and valued, dear readers. Love you all and keep those awesome reviews coming! **

I walk into the violin-music emanating 221 Baker Street building as the sun is setting behind me. I shut the front door to see all my shopping bags that I had sent here piled up in front of the landing of the stairs. Why didn't Sherlock let the delivery boy in? He's probably miffed because I didn't reply to his text message, but instead deactivated the SIM card in the phone he planted in my pocket. I don't want to play by his rules. I guess it ruffled his feathers enough to stage this annoying form of protest.

I nimbly climb the stairs and open the unlocked door to see Sherlock, alone in the living room, playing a quick paced Bach tune in minor, facing the window. I briskly walk into the living room and tap him on the shoulder.

"John, I asked you to pass me my laptop charger 3 hou- oh, it's you." He says, putting his arms down, his violin and bow still in hand.

"Why didn't you let the delivery service in here to bring my shopping bags in?" I demand.

"I was busy."

"Sherlock, why are there a load of shopping bags at the bottom of the stairs? Oh, hello Irene love, I didn't know you were in! Sherlock, could you be a dear and bring up the shopping bags?"

"No."

"But Sherl-"

"Do I look like a busboy? Have John do it." He says, raising his violin on to his shoulder once more.

"Don't you worry, Mrs Hudson. I'll go move them right now. They're mine, anyway. I guess the delivery boy just set them there because Sherlock wouldn't open the door for him." I say, giving Mrs Hudson a warm smile as I head for the door. I'm not usually kind to old people; they irk me with their wrinkles and antiquity. But I sympathize deeply for poor Mrs Hudson as she has to deal with Sherlock's attitude all the time.

I go down and pick up half the bags and walk up the stairs just as John walks in, donned in green hospital scrubs.

"Oh perfect. You're a do-gooder. Be a good do-gooder and carry the rest of the bags up with you, will you John?" I say dismissively as I hop up the stairs. I reach the door and turn around to see a super-confused looking John, following by lead while carrying my remaining boutique bags up the stairs with him.

I push the door open with my bum and walk towards Sherlock's room, and John follows me wordlessly. Sherlock doesn't interrupt his playing to look at us. John sets the bags down on Sherlock's messy bedroom floor and opens his mouth and shuts it again. But then he says, "So you're overtaking Sherlock's room now?"

"Are you alarmed by that, John? Does the thought make you uncomfortable?" I say, leaning closer to him, smirking. He clears his throat, sounding truly uncomfortable. I just can't help myself.

"Bullying someone who just helped you isn't very nice, Irene."

"Who ever said I was nice?" I reply nonchalantly, picking up my laptop, which was deviated slightly. I am starting to get annoyed. Sherlock is being a little brat, acting like he doesn't care and yet is still messing with my stuff. The shopping I did cleared my head enough to realize that he needs to be scolded; to be forced to behave. And I'm just the person to do that.

I tuck my laptop under my arm and walk out of the room, and John follows me. Sherlock is still fiddling around on his fiddle as I lower myself gracefully on the armchair he was probably sitting on; given the particular positioning of the cushions, just the way Sherlock likes them, just to provoke him. I open up my laptop and scan the keyboard keys, looking at the greasier ones in order to try and unscramble what Sherlock would have possibly thought my password is, but sadly he seems to have been wearing gloves or wiped the keyboard clean. It's adorable how he tries to be thorough. You've got to give him credit for trying.

"What were your guesses?" I say in a goadingly loud manner, hoping that he would stop his playing to answer to the challenge in my question. And he doesn't fail me. He doesn't turn to look at me, but starts to play quieter as he says, "Why don't you take a guess."

"You kind of cheated by not leaving any hints for me."

"What in the hell are you two blabbering on about." John says as he enters the room in casual clothes, heading for his armchair. We both ignore him.

"Do you need them?"

"I'm flattered that you think that I'm that good. But alas, Sherlock dear, even I need clues."

Sherlock scoffs.

"You probably thought it would be your name, or something that has to do with you." I say sarcastically, typing in the word TWICE to unlock my laptop. I smirk. He lets out a little huff of ai, but picks up his violin once more and starts to play an agitating, staccato tune. If only he knew the irony. But then again, he probably does. I open up my email inbox again and start typing out my replies, orders, and responses to the various people who are inquiring about my whereabouts. They're all getting the same answer; none of their business.

After about 52 minutes of the three of us sitting in the living room, going about our business and not trying to make any type of communication, Sherlock's phone makes little dingy noises we can barely hear through the violin music. We all ignore it, up until those texts start making Sherlock's phone shake very violently on the coffee table. He lets out an annoyed sounding sigh and stops playing to check it.

I don't look up to watch Sherlock's response. I've regained my cool after the therapeutic shopping trip. I need to play the game better than the side who thinks they've mastered it, because the victory that that game plan reaps is the sweetest. And I deserve a sweet victory.

"There's been another disappearance." Sherlock says drily, and sighs. I look up and watch him type in a hasty reply to Lestrade.

"Well aren't you going to go check out the crime scene?" John asks, also looking up to watch Sherlock.

"This is barely a 2, John. I will only leave the house if it's at least an 8. I already know who did it, why should I go through the hassle of going to the crime scene to be breathed on by idiots if I already know who did it? Besides, the crime scene is apparently an exact replica of the last 3, but this time the walls are splattered with chicken blood. I'm having Lestrade email me pictures of the crime scene, just in case there might be some new telling detail that his team of imbeciles surely wouldn't be able to pick up." Sherlock throws his phone back onto the table.

"They sure are getting sloppy." I comment, my eyes still on my computer screen.

He picks up his violin and begins to play again. I go back to my bossing. This goes on for about another 2 hours until I decide it's time for me to go to bed. Shopping does really drain a girl. I shut my laptop and stand up, heading for Sherlock's room. I shut the door behind me and put on the shirt Sherlock lent to me, figuring that it's still on loan. I could have worn any one of my new erm, entertainment pieces, but frankly, I prefer the smell on this one. Ugh, me and my stupid sentiment. Whatever, it's not like he's going to see me like this anyway.

But as I snuggle deeper into the Sherlock-scented sheets, Sherlock manages to surprise me by entering his bedroom. He takes a pile of clothes that look like pajamas. He walks out the room briskly and re-enters it about 2 minutes and 42 seconds later, donned in a shirt identical to the one I'm wearing and a pair of comfortable looking plaid cotton pants.

He doesn't regard me as he sits down on his bed with me in it and pulls up the covers, slipping in under them. I don't speak either, but rather I twist myself around to turn off the bedside lamp that I turned on when I crawled into the bed. So, he decided to step up his game too. I can respect that, but I'm not giving him the satisfaction of reacting.

So I force myself to sleep in the way I sleep when I'm around people; all tensed up. And I know he can feel it. Just my little way of showing him that since he wasn't going to play nice, neither was I. So I force myself asleep in that rigid, strained manner, with my back to Sherlock, falling into dreamless unconsciousness.

But I could swear that when I woke up drowsily in the middle of the night for no reason at all, I felt a pair of familiar arms encircling my waist tightly.


	10. Chapter 10

I wake up to an empty bed. I groan and stretch my tightly coiled body upon realizing that I'm alone. But my loneliness doesn't last for long as Sherlock bursts into the room.

"Get up, we're going to a crime scene." Sherlock says briskly, heading for his bookshelf and violently pulling books out, tossing them aside when he realizes they're not the ones he's looking for.

"Well good morning to you too, Sherlock." I say, sitting up and running my fingers through my hair.

"Didn't you hear me?" Sherlock says, now just pulling out books manically from the bookshelf and leaning in deeper to get a look at the books laying at the back of his bookshelf.

"Has there been another damned kidnapping already?" I mutter sounding strained as I stretch out my knotted back.

"Not a kidnapping, a murder."

I sigh and fall back down on to the bed, just to irk him. I shut my eyes and stretch my tensed up muscles and relax them, opening my eyes to see a very annoyed looking Sherlock, hovering on top of me.

"I thought I told you to get up. I have no problem with leaving you here." Sherlock says huffily. God, isn't he Mr Pretentious Pants. I want to bother him, just for laughs. Everyone deserves a good morning laugh. I throw the covers off me in one swift movement and wrap my arms and legs around Sherlock with predacious agility. I flip him around and lie on top of him on his bed, his face a mask of shock only I manage to plaster on it every now and then.

"Miss Adler, could you please get off of me." Sherlock says, his face looking flustered. I chuckle and lean up, flipping my leg over his waist to straddle him. I inch my face closer to his.

"I will do no such thing, Mr Holmes."

His eyes meet mine, and somehow soften. He looks at me just like he used to for the first time since I showed up here.

"Well the-"

"Sherlock, isn't this murder somewhat important for you to get to as you JUST said that the murderer left a message for yo- OH MY GOD." Sherlock and I both turn our heads at the same John's jaw drops as he stands at the door of Sherlock's bedroom, taking in the sight before him. I smirk but I don't release Sherlock from under me.

"You know, John, a typical reaction would entail the intruding party looking away after impinging on a private moment." Sherlock states emotionlessly.

"Oh, so you do count this as a private moment, don't you?" I growl alluringly, leaning down to press my face against Sherlock's warm chest. Me and my indulgent impulses.

"Get off of me, there's a message waiting for me." Sherlock mutters detachedly, but remaining unmoving under me.

"It's not like the messenger's going anywhere, odds are he or she is already dead." I murmur throatily against his chest. He doesn't stir. Neither do I. John clears his throat, and just stands there at the door.

"Yes, right. Well, I'll be waiting in the living room till the pair of you are, um, done, I guess? I-well, ok." John babbles, sounding bemused. He fumbles his way out of the room, giving us some proper privacy, but sadly, Sherlock decides he's had enough. He slides himself out from under me. However, I'm not releasing him from my clutches that easily. As he sits up on the side of his bed, I wrap my left arm around his midsection, pulling him towards me, and I flip over and climb over his lap to face him, straddling him again.

"Irene, stop it." He says, his voice as solid as marble.

"Make me."

"Oh really, I have a crime scene to get to." He says, but I wrap my arms around his neck.

He looks me dead in the eye, and I swear I see something stir behind them.

"Ugh, alright then. Please." He says, but I just smile cattily and say, "You know how it goes, Sherlock." He rolls his eyes, but cocks his head playfully to the side and gives me a little smile.

"Please?" He says, his voice sounding warmer now.

"That's better." I say, a victorious simper playing across my lips. I lift myself off of him and hop onto the floor. I walk over to my shopping bags and pluck out a red Givenchy dress from their latest ready-to-wear line, and walk over to another and pluck out a Ralph Lauren shoe box from another bag a few feet away. I make my way to the bathroom, but turn around to look at Sherlock, who is still sitting on the edge of his bed, and say, "You better not leave without me."

"Sherlock, good. You're here. I need you to ta- oh. H-hello Miss Adler." Lestrade says, looking up from the papers that an officer handed to him just as Sherlock, John, and I walked across the yellow police tape to head towards him. A deep red flush crawls up his neck as he gets an eye full of me, and Sherlock clears his throat. Lestrade's eyes dart up to meet Sherlock's.

"You were saying?" Sherlock asks pointedly, snatching the papers from Lestrade's hands and examining them, John scoffing behind him. Was that jealousy I detected in Sherlock's voice? Well, he can't really blame Lestrade for staring, I wear my new dress pretty darn well.

"Yes, yes right. You need to take a look at the crime scene. It's quite strange." Lestrade says, gesturing for us to follow him. I look around the closed off street, swarming with uniformed officers.

"Hello, John. Freak. Y-you."

"Ah. Sergeant Donovan. Lead Sherlock here to the crime scene, will you? I have to sign these and have them on their way." Lestrade says, snatching his papers from Sherlock's hands and walking away towards his car, gesturing at another officer to follow him.

"Yeah, well. This way." Donovan says, flashing me a look of mixed terror and irritation as she raises her shirt's collar self-consciously. Sherlock notices and snorts, causing John to raise his eyebrow, looking even more confused than he usually does. Donovan turns and strides away, and we all follow her. She leads us in to where a row of tall, thick, old looking trees. We all walk on to the muddy terrain, my heels slightly sinking into the damp soil as I tread on, following Donovan, as I examine the state of her stockings from behind. Brand new by the looks of them, department store bought. They look neater than the ones she wore last time I saw her.

I lean over towards Sherlock, getting really close to his ear, and whisper "She doesn't seem to expect spending a lot of time on her knees today, does she?" causing Sherlock to snicker, thus causing John to turn to look at the pair of us sniggering childishly, his look of confusion morphing into a look of contempt. Donovan just starts to walk faster.

Finally, we reach the dead body. The man, who looks to be about 20ish and is quite handsome, dressed in a bulky parka and worn jeans, is lying down on the mushy muddy floor, his head lying on a small cluster of weeds. If it weren't for the bullet wound going straight through his forehead, he could've looked like he was just taking a nap in the middle of the forest. Sherlock kneels down right at his head to examine the victim more closely, and I follow suit.

"Where's the trail Lestrade mentioned?" Sherlock asks in a drawl, his voice not betraying the obvious excitement at the mysterious aspect of the case that has Lestrade's division halt in confusion.

"It's hardly a trail, freak. Just a severed finger." Interesting.

"Well, you're hardly an expert are you, so how are you to know? Where's the finger, then?" I say snappily, as I take out my cellphone from my coat pocket and turn to the dead body to snap some pictures of it. Sherlock continues to examine the body, checking the pockets of the victim's burka, and pulling out a small square piece of paper, and then gesturing at John, who was previously gawking at me because of my sharp response to the sergeant's rather unintelligent statement, to take a look at the hand where the severed finger is.

"O-okay then, whatever." Donovan says shakily, eyeing me up, attempting to look like I don't intimidate her. I just give her a bitingly acerbic smile as Sherlock sharply stands up, snapping his little magnifying glass shut. She walks over to a little empty patch of mud, surrounded by tufts of grass.

The three of us follow her, and lean over to look at the grimy, stubby ended finger. "Gloves." Sherlock says, holding his hand out expectantly at Donovan, who just raises her eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Oh God, if you're just going to stand around here, I don't see what you're useful for." I say brusquely. I walk over towards the edge of the street, casually stepping over the dead body, towards a group of men who where all wearing forensic bodysuits, assuming they must have some gloves and a baggie.

As I approach them, I see the familiar face of that scumbag Anderson. Goodie.

"Do you boys happen to have an extra set of gloves and a plastic bag?" I say sultrily as I stop at the empty space between the men.

"Why hell-o again, Miss."

"Nice to see that you've been keeping yourself out of suction-y trouble. A bag and a pair of glove, please." My most charming sensual smile crawls on to my lips as I look every man in the eye. One of them reaches into his pockets, fumbles around violently, and pulls out a wad of plastic. I look down at the contents of his hand and look up at him with a raised eyebrow, and he quickly starts to stiffly untangle the plastic mess in his hands, producing three plastic sacks and two latex gloves.

"Thanks champ." I say, winking at him as I walk away. I hear him dry swallow the nerves I usually induce in men quite audibly as I saunter over to where Sherlock was still kneeling over the severed finger. I pull on the latex gloves and kneel down right beside Sherlock, picking up the finger and dropping it into the bag, putting that bag into another, and that one the last. Sherlock looks up at me with a look of annoyance and I hand him the bags containing the dead man's finger with a sugary smile on my face.

"Where to now?" John pipes up from Sherlock's other side, a residual look of amusement still drawn across his features.

"The morgue." Sherlock says, twisting the little finger bag shut and putting it into his coat pocket. Donovan hesitantly opens her mouth to say something, but glances at me and shuts it. She may be a slow learner, but at least she learns her lesson. Sherlock turns around and heads for the street, and John and I follow him.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Hi guys! I just wanted to apologize for the fact that this fic isn't as brainy as other Sherlock fics. I just want to remind you guys that I'm only 16 and mildly intelligent, so this "coming up with clever twists" thing is sort of relatively new as I'm more of the kind of girl who writes fluff. **

**Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this chapter, remember to leave me reviews! All your comments are super motivational!**

"Oh, Hi Sherlock!" A perky woman wearing a lab coat says, looking up from a microscope. She sounds absolutely infatuated with Sherlock, and I understood that from a simple greeting; she must have it bad. I give her a look over. Frizzy hair, bad dye job, lacking in the chest region. She's tugging the hem of her unflattering purple fuzzy jumper down in order to make it look less frumpy in front of Sherlock; she has laugh lines around the corners of her mouth, but she hardly looks old enough to have wrinkles yet, then again not everyone is blessed with great skin like me, and she probably doesn't take enough care of it. The cuffs of the sleeve of her St Bart's lab coat look frayed, probably meaning that she's been working here for a while, she couldn't have possibly borrowed it from anyone else in this division as all the people I've seen aren't nearly as petite as her. She's pushing her hair to one side of her face, probably trying to cover a nasty zit growing on the side of her neck as to not draw Sherlock's attention, indicating that she knows Sherlock well enough to know that he notices everything.

"Oh, who's this?" She says, the sweet excitement in her voice dropping as she turns her eyes to examine me. I look her in the eye and see a soft, innocent kindness. I swear she looks just like a mystefied puppy. I give her a soft smile that sits weirdly on my face; I don't usually give kind smiles, and hold out my hand gingerly, "I'm Irene Adler, a friend of Sherlock's." I say, and John gives a scoff and mumbles something along the lines of, "Yeah sure, _friend_."

Sherlock ignores the exchange going on and goes to the far corner of the room, where a solitary microscope that looks as to be adjusted suitably for someone of about Sherlock's height. I swiftly pull my hand out of the woman's as she looks confusedly at John after hearing his almost unintelligible mumbling about my being Sherlock's "friend". I walk over to the door and hang my coat on one of the coat hanger pegs and walk over towards where Sherlock is, more interested in what the finger has to tell us than finding out the puppy woman's name.

Sherlock plops down stiffly on a stool and takes out the bagged finger. He sets it on the surgically clean looking counter and tugs on a pair of latex gloves. I carry an identical stool and set it beside Sherlock's, pulling on a pair of latex gloves as I sit down gracefully, crossing my ankles. He gingerly takes out the finger from the bags and brings it close to his face, examining it closer. I get closer to the finger too, and see some dirt on the pad of the finger. That's bound to be the "trail" that was left for Sherlock.

"The dirt on-"

"The pad of the finger. Sherlock check it." I say, interrupting Sherlock. I scan the counter top for a petri dish and a scrape and find them, leaning over to grab them. I stand up and scrape off a bit of dirt from the pad of the finger, and hand it to Sherlock. He doesn't look up but takes it from my hand and places the sample under the microscope in front of him.

I look around the lab while Sherlock's examining the finger residue, and I catch the perky woman still staring at me, now with a full blown look of unadulterated bewilderedness on her face as she realizes that I'm a possible competitor of hers over Sherlock's heart. And she seems to know that she's no competition compared to me; as she fully comprehends this fact, her face twists dejectedly. Poor girl. I offer her a friendly, compassionate smile. Might as well be nice to her since she seems to be the kind of person who's always having a rough time.

"Cleaning fluid, cleaning fluid that's still slightly toxic; it was part of an unfinished batch, and mud mixed with factory-smoke residue. This finger was obviously placed in cleaning fluid still in a factory and then rubbed on the ground to lead us somewhere, but, where?" Sherlock mumbles, whipping out his phone. I follow suit and open up the web browser app, typing in the web address of my favorite search engine. I type in "hygiene product factory northern london."; as there was rain around the north this morning, meaning that's where the mud is from.

"Northumberland Cleaning Supplies LTD" Sherlock says, flipping the phone in the air and then stuffing it into his pocket just as I was opening the exact same page with the same title that he presumably just skimmed over. "They shut down earlier this month, the factory's completely abandoned. A good place to lead someone you want to trap into."

I look up at him as he mentions a "trap" and give him an exited smile that I'm exited to see him return.

"You two are way too excited about being led into a trap." John says pointedly, walking up to stand beside Sherlock. "Didn't Moriarty pulls something like this a few years back, Sherlock?"

"Yes yes John your memory is quite impressive." Sherlock drawls as he picks up the severed finger and puts it back into the bag I put it in. He walks over and hands it to the woman.

"Dispose of this, would you Molly?" He says dismissively as he heads towards the door. Her face drops. I look at her, then back at Sherlock, then back at her, but then Sherlock interrupts my train of thought by yelling, "Aren't you lot coming?" From the corridor.

I straighten my dress and head to the door, grabbing my coat on my way out, with John following me. "Goodbye Molly, till next time." John says, holding up his hand in a wave at the not-so-perky looking Molly as he follows me out the door

We pull up at the abandoned factory at about noon time, but I hardly feel the sun beat down at us as we step out of the taxi due to the residual clouds still lingering in the sky, threatening to resume their previous downpour. As soon as he straightens himself up upon exiting the taxi, leaving John to pay for the ride, Sherlock immediately looks at the ground and starts walking off towards the smallest of a cluster of buildings. I follow him with a brisk pace.

"What are you following exactly, Sherlock?"

"Oh he's just following the very obvious trail that was left for our benefit." I purr, sliding my arm into Sherlock's as I catch up to him.

"Seriously, John. It's painfully obvious?"

"Um, I really don't see it." John retorts sarcastically from behind us, quickening his pace to match ours.

"The crow-footed footprints of a man wearing quite peculiar shoes that exactly match those located on the scene of the crime I was called to examine earlier this morning lead to... this building." Sherlock says, his words slowing down to match his reducing pace. He stops in front of the entrance and his eyes scan over the obviously busted entryway.

"What about the trap you mentioned earlier, Sherlock?" John asks, jogging to keep up with our pace.

"There is no trap, they evidently sent me here to give me a message. Do try and keep up, John."

"How sloppy." I comment. Sherlock pulls me with him into the ghostly still building.

"It's quite obvious that our friends have made it sloppy on purpose."

"Why would they be sloppy on purpose?" John says, following us into the dark building that reeks of citrus-y cleaning fluid.

"To get my attention." Sherlock mumbles, pulling himself out of my grip as he approaches a wall graffiti-ed in a shade of bright, fluorescent orange to examine it closer. I could've sworn I've seen this exact shade of orange before.

"They're quite a vacuous bunch, aren't they." I mutter as I get closer to the wall, my eyes adjusting to the darkness so I can make out the letters of orange that previously appeared to be floating in nothingness.

"Stay away, Holmes." Well, couldn't they at least have been a bit more creative?

"So, I'm assuming you're too afraid to continue searching for them and helping me rip them apart then, Mr Holmes." I growl, hooking my arm into his once more. He doesn't pull away this time.

"I'm afraid so, Miss Adler. Their absolute ingenious method of getting their point across has absolutely paralyzed me. I guess I won't be straining my mental capabilities too hard to catch these clever sex traffickers." He replies, looking down at me and flashing me a sarcastic smile.

After snapping a couple of pictures of the graffiti-ed walls for future reference, Sherlock and I both turn around and stride towards the door, John following us.

"Bloody idiots." Sherlock murmurs as we head towards the factory's exit, to find a taxi that will drive us home.


	12. Chapter 12

"So what are we going to do now?" I say as I lean back into Sherlock's armchair with a bowl balanced on my thigh, chewing a crunchy bite from the salad Mrs Hudson so kindly made me after she realized I more or less don't eat anything but plant products. She's quite an observant spinster, Sherlock's annoying habit must have rubbed off on her. I watch Sherlock ignore me from the couch, most probably deep in thought, observing the way the little crinkle between his eyebrow etches itself progressively deeper and deeper into his skin as he sinks further into his own web of analysis.

"He's not going to answer you, you know." John says, walking into the room. I look away from Sherlock to see John looking neat and clean shaven. His hair is neatly combed, his sports jacket is zipped up properly as to not wrinkle the shirt underneath; he does look like the type to get all touchy about his appearance before he goes on a date.

"I'll be off then, if he starts talking to me make sure you at least try to tell him that you're not me. I don't want him saying anything to you that you aren't meant to hear." He says as he fiddles with the cuffs of his jacket, turning to look at me while I roll my eyes at his stupid comment.

"Yeah, whatever. Enjoy your date, lover boy." I take another bite of my salad and turn my head to watch Sherlock again. I hear John tense up, probably deliberating whether to respond to me or not, but apparently decides not to as he quietly exits 221B.

Finally, alone again. I keep my eyes on Sherlock as I sink into my own thoughts, planning out my next crucial move. Now that I have him all to myself, I may be able to carry through with at least cracking his defenses a bit. I take another bite of the crunchy salad and chew it slowly.

We sit in this silence long after I finish my salad; both of us deliberating our next move on what is troubling us, although both Sherlock and I know that the little trail we followed today should be no source of trouble for either of us. It's quite obvious that our little friends haven't the slightest clue of what they're doing, so why worry? As I think that, a sudden idea that might pose a solution to my predicament strikes me? Why don't I take a page from my dominatrix days to get the ball rolling? Why don't I misbehave to get him all riled up? I get up and walk silently over to the sink as I start to plan out my attack in my head, setting my empty salad bowl slowly into it and pouring some water into it so the oil doesn't get sticky inside of it. Why not be conscientious for poor Mrs Hudson's sake?

I pour myself a glass of water and take a big sip, swallowing it quickly, and set the cup back down on to the counter, mentally preparing myself for what I'm about to do. I walk briskly into Sherlock's bedroom and pull out a single cigarette from my little packet of cigarettes and my trusty Zippo. The one thing I know he craves more than anything in the world is a good smoke. I stroll back into the living room, twirling the cigarette in my fingers and take a seat next to Sherlock on the couch.

I give Sherlock, who's attention I finally managed to trap and is now glaring at me, a sideways glance as I put the cigarette to my blood red-coated lips.

"Don't smoke inside the house, Miss Adler. Mrs Hudson would blame me for getting the cigarette smoke on her furniture."

"Who's to stop me?" I say, looking with him with what I hope is a mischievous sparkle to him as I flick the lighter open. Suddenly, his hand flies to cover mine, snapping the lighter shut, the stillness of his eyes emanating a firm finality, with just a glint of untamed desperation. I just cock my head to the side in response, smiling with the cigarette held lightly between my teeth as I swiftly pull my hand out of his grasp, flick the lighter open and on, and light the cigarette.

"Really, Miss Adler, must you really?" He mutters, sucking in a sharp breath as the tempting scent of my first puff of smoke starts to fill the air, leaning back on the couch, observing me with a look that I can't quite decipher etched on his angular face. I analyze the shadows of his face, my lips still in a soft smile, as I take another drag from the cigarette. His eyes start to flick from boring holes into my eyes to looking at the cigarette, trying to fight the temptation. This is absolutely enrapturing.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Being such a tease."

"I figured it's about time you had a taste of your own medicine, Mr Holmes."

He lets our a frustrated groan and drops his head into his hands, inhaling the musky cigarette fumes as I blow out another dusky cloud of smoke from my mouth. He raises his head and looks straight into the kitchen as I take another drag of my cigarette.

"We aren't going to do anything now." He mumbles defeatedly, finally answering the question that he so rudely ignored before John left.

"That's better." I say, smiling as I make rings with the cigarette smoke I blow out of my mouth. "Carry on."

"Could you put that damned cigarette out?" He growls tensely as he still stares straight into the kitchen, a red flush starting to crawl up his neck. I love it when he get's all riled up.

"Well, love, you knew I was never the one to make compromises." I purr as I take another short drag of my cigarette and blow it out in one quick puff in his general direction. The muscles of his neck tense up some more.

"We're not going to act on this silly little stunt the leaders of the ring pulled to get us to react. Why should we react as those idiots expect us to? We'll move at our own time. Plus they'd be expecting an attack now, so if we prolong our response, they'll begin to plan another way to catch our attention, which will effectively pacify them to make giving them a swift end significantly easy, now put. Out. That. _Cigarette._" Sherlock says in one breath, finally turning to look at me.

I smirk triumphantly as I finish the last of my cigarette with one long drag, leaning my head back to blow out the smoke up in the air, causing Sherlock's gaze to harden even more.

"My, that hit the spot. Care for a cig, Sherlock love?" I say as I stretch in the chair. He rolls his eyes and gets up, heading towards the kitchen. He tries to hide it, but I see him sneak on three fresh nicotine patches on the inside of his forearm. I guess he isn't as unaffected as he pretends to be.

Three hours later, I walk into Sherlock's dark bedroom and crawl into his bed, which is starting to lose it's Sherlock-y smell as he hasn't slept in almost five days. I wonder how he goes on so long without sleep, or does he just sleep on the couch? The longest stretch he ever went without sleeping when we were together was for three days, and that was when he was thinking hard about our particular predicament of the time. What could possibly be making him think so hard now? I'd like to think that it's due to the heightening tension between us, making him doubt himself so hard that he can't sleep for five days straight just to reassess the situation again and again in his head like he always does whenever he's in a pickle. I need to find out.

But God, am I tired. It can wait till tomorrow. I snuggle deeper into Sherlock's bed, trying to catch my last whiffs of the remanent Sherlock-y redolence in his bed. Suddenly, the bedroom door flies open as Sherlock enters, looking freshly showered and donned in the same shirt I borrowed from him for a few days earlier in the week rather than one that looks identical to it, I'm sure of it because of the little lipstick mark I made on it's collar, which means it hasn't been washed. If this isn't an obvious sign that I'm finally getting to him, I don't know what is.

He doesn't show any sign of alarm as he walks to the other side of the bed and swiftly climbs in. He curls up in his usual sleeping position, his back facing mine. The room falls silent. My mind jolts from it's previous sleepy state into full throttle as I tug the sheets tighter around me. But I eventually manage to fall into a shallow, uncomfortable, and dreamless sleep.

And in the middle of the night, another sign of light shining through Sherlock's now crumbling facade peeks through as I wake up to feel the oh so familiar pair of arms encircling my waist from behind. I slowly turn around to face a sleeping Sherlock, looking blissfully peaceful in his slumber. My jostling only causes him to tighten his grip around my waist, which makes me suck in a sudden breath. I repress the reflex to rip his face out which I developed from my dominatrix days, but instead revel in my little victory, snuggling closer into him, breathing in his smell, but only for a minute. I then flip over to return to my previous position and close my eyes, pretending like I never caught his little slip up.

He may be an impeccable actor, but he can't always hide his sentiment.


End file.
